Since ancient times, the poets and scholars have loved to describe the sounds of time passing — the withering and blooming of grass, the waxing and waning of the moon, geese departing southward in formation, a great river flowing east.

These lines had never meant anything to Xiao Nanhui before.

But right now, she suddenly felt how vivid and apt those soft and gentle phrases were.

More than half a shichen had passed. The moonlight outside the window had shifted from a clear radiance to a lingering afterglow, and she had kept her eyes open the whole time, barely moving.

She lay on her side across the vast bed embroidered all over with cloud patterns, her gaze resting on the gently rising and falling of his chest nearby, and on the dim, indistinct darkness beyond. In her ears was his quiet, shallow breathing, mingled with the crackling of the brazier in the room — which paradoxically made the night feel very still, very long.

If the passing of time truly had a sound, it would be exactly this.

The arm pinned beneath her had gone somewhat numb. She did not dare move. Her hair pin had gone missing at some point. Her loose hair ends tangled together with the dark tresses he had spread across the pillow, in a way that felt impossible to separate or sort out.

The warmth emanating from his skin carried a force that settled the heart. As the ache in her legs gradually receded, the fatigue that had been building since she left Quecheng surged up again.

But she could not sleep at all.

She was not tired. She did not want to close her eyes. She did not want to waste a single moment lying here at his side — not a single instant, not one breath.

It was a pity that he slept with such decorum. It would have been difficult for most people to maintain this posture for so long even while awake.

How could anyone look like they couldn’t be faulted for anything, even in sleep?

Xiao Nanhui narrowed her eyes and looked more carefully, finally discovering at his temple a single stray strand of hair that had escaped.

Quietly freeing a hand, her fingers inched closer, tingling with intent. Just as they were about to touch that hair, he suddenly spoke.

“Not sleeping?”

She was startled. With the fastest reflexes she had ever mustered in her life, she yanked her hand back, then — betraying herself entirely — hid it under her head.

She had no idea when he had woken, and couldn’t even be sure whether he had been asleep at all.

After some anxious observation, she finally answered honestly.

“I can’t sleep.”

He seemed to smile in the darkness, his voice very soft.

“After two shichen more, if you want to sleep, it won’t be so easy.”

Two shichen from now, at the break of day, the Imperial Hunting Ground would open, and the Spring Hunt would officially begin. According to the customs of the Imperial household, once the Spring Hunt started, it lasted for two days and one night. The royal handlers responsible for the encirclement would drive the game through the preserve throughout the night, and by the following sunset would tally up each party’s harvest. The winner would receive the Emperor’s personal reward — and the prize money alone was solid gold.

Well, what a fine opportunity to earn money — she should be conserving her energy right now, so she could hunt a few more deer tomorrow, instead of lingering here in admiration of beauty, squandering the night away.

She produced a smile, a somewhat strained one.

“It’s fine — I’m not tired.”

“Is that so?” The man’s voice seemed to hold some genuine puzzlement, and then a moment of contemplation. “If Xiao Consultant has such abundant energy, merely sleeping does seem like something of a waste.”

Hmm?

A strange image suddenly appeared in Xiao Nanhui’s mind. She cursed Yaoyi inwardly — that lecherous wretch who had been corrupting her mind with erotic picture books since childhood — while at the same time desperately summoning the image of Xu Shu’s infuriating face from earlier in the day, and of that horse of his that was particularly prolific in its defecation.

At last, her racing heart settled down. She was all but ready to recite a Buddhist verse to banish the stray thoughts.

Seeing that she had gone silent for some time, he spoke again.

“Come, are you unwilling to share a candlelit conversation with me?”

So it was only talking.

Xiao Nanhui awkwardly burrowed a little deeper into the quilt.

He propped himself up on one arm, resting his fingers lightly at his temple, and looked down at her with half-lowered eyes.

“Or perhaps there is something else you would rather do?”

No! Of course not!

She was immediately thrown into a state of frantic helplessness. Her gaze swept to something on his wrist — and she seized on it like a lifeline, rushing out the words before she could think.

“That — the Buddhist prayer beads on Your Majesty’s wrist — what is their origin?”

She had spoken too eagerly, her tone so rapid and unrestrained — nothing at all like the way one ought to address an Emperor.

She was still calling him Your Majesty, yet all formality between sovereign and subject had long since been flung somewhere beyond the clouds.

The air was quiet for a moment, and then his voice came.

“Do you know who Yikong’s master was?”

Xiao Nanhui shook her head, her expression genuinely puzzled.

“He had a master? Wasn’t he said to be some extraordinary figure who walked across the surface of the Boyu Sea?”

Su Wei’s lips curved into a sardonic arc.

The image of that monk putting on an industrious performance to collect incense money flashed through his mind, set against the sincere face of the young woman before him — genuine with just a hint of guilelessness. He decided to set aside for the time being the monk’s reprehensible habit of building monuments to himself and gilding his own image.

“Yikong’s master was Wumin, and Wumin had once been my teacher. Properly speaking, Yikong and I are fellow disciples within the Buddhist tradition. Before Master Wumin passed into nirvana, he gifted me eighteen sariras — relics each from eighteen eminent monks who had attained enlightenment — and added to these with the three relics from his own passing, making twenty-one Buddhist bone relics in total.”

She had not expected him to answer — and even less expected him to answer in such detail.

That string of sariras was evidently of extraordinary rarity at a glance. Their origin must have been far from ordinary. And the encounter in the Bieming Cave had led her to dimly surmise the meaning of those prayer beads to him.

Only—

“Why would he give sariras?”

He paused briefly, then answered her question with a question.

“Based on your reasoning, what do you think these prayer beads are meant to do?”

She swallowed, and replied honestly: “Actually — I’ve always thought — I always thought Your Majesty was a living Buddha reincarnate—”

Her voice grew smaller and smaller, and her whole face sank lower and lower, until only the top of her head was visible.

He stared at that head — where a few tufts of new growth had come in at uneven angles — for a while, then suddenly laughed out loud.

He rarely laughed. Laughing out loud was rarer still.

She was unsettled by it — at once uneasy and a little irritated.

“What — what is so funny?”

He finally reined in his laughter, though the tail end of it still carried a trace of amusement.

“After everything that happened in the Bieming Cave, whether I am a Buddha or a demon — I would have thought you had long since reached your own conclusion.”

The only person who had seen him like that and had not fled — apart from Wumin, she was the only one.

“The Your Majesty of that time was not the real Your Majesty.”

Her tone still carried a stubborn, self-determined quality, but her expression was entirely sincere.

She was always like this. Once she had made up her mind about something, it was very difficult for her to go back on it.

And he — precisely because of that — could not resist testing her.

Testing whether her resolve was firm.

“How do you know that the person I was then was not my true self?” His voice returned to its usual composure — as though the person being discussed were not himself. “Wumin was a wandering monk. At the end of his life, he traversed the world, carrying nothing but a copper bowl. He had already placed himself beyond the concerns of this mortal realm. And yet he expended enormous effort, searched painstakingly, and in the end assembled this string of prayer beads. Do you think it was simply to fulfill his bond of master and student with me?”

Xiao Nanhui fell silent.

So then — what was it for?

She was not without her guesses about the true purpose of those prayer beads. Most likely, the Buddhist power contained within them acted as a counterbalance to the force in his bloodline — which was why the beads could act as a suppression when he lost control. If that day in the Bieming Cave she had ultimately failed to return the prayer beads to his hand, what would have come next?

Each of those sariras had been worn smooth and round — traces left by the accumulation of years, carrying within them a covenant of inseparability, born of life-and-death devotion.

But what if the one who wore them had not done so of his own will?

She moistened her lips and leaned close to peer at the prayer beads intently.

“Do they hurt — to wear them?”

The moment she asked it, she regretted it. Because the question sounded utterly foolish.

Who would ever feel pain from wearing a string of prayer beads?

A long silence filled the air.

After a long pause, he slowly let out two words.

“They do not.”

She let out a breath — not knowing whether she was relieved at the answer itself, or for some other reason.

“The Buddhist method suppresses the nature of the heart and mind. If the heart is calm — neither sorrowful nor joyful — all is well. But if stirred by external agitation and the heart becomes turbulent, then there is peril.”

As he spoke these words, she was right there before his eyes — leaning in to study the prayer beads on his hand with intent focus, the soft top of her head brushing back and forth against his chin. She had no awareness whatsoever that she herself was the source of that “peril.”

After a while, she pulled back.

She suddenly recalled something from much earlier — Ding Weixiang’s long-winded, fussy instructions to her before he had set off for the northern bank of the Tianmu River. At the time she had still been puzzled as to why, having grown up in the Imperial household, he had never learned even the basics of horse-riding and archery.

Now, looking back, the answer was quite clear.

Ding Weixiang was not afraid that he would be injured practicing martial arts. He was afraid that he would lose control and bring peril.

To him it was peril. To the people around him, it was the same.

And yet — moving through the world, even if the body has never sustained physical harm, how difficult it is for the soul to remain ever tranquil.

“Human beings are born with feeling. How can one achieve a state of neither sorrow nor joy?”

He looked into her eyes and spoke, word by word.

“Only through repeated practice. Given enough time, what is practiced diligently becomes second nature.”

She didn’t believe it, and pressed further.

“How does one practice?”

He said nothing. He suddenly reached over and lightly pulled a thin blanket down over her face.

“Just like this.”

Xiao Nanhui was plunged into darkness. She hastily grabbed and tugged the blanket off, and was somewhat indignant.

“If you don’t want to say it, fine — but why must you tease me like this?”

His lips still held the remnant of a faint smile, but hearing this, it faded at once. He only reached out a finger to smooth down her disheveled hair.

“Yikong recites sutras for me every month. The sutra is called the Scripture of the Concealed Coffin. It is a product of the South Sea Lianyin school, taking its source from the legend of the Buddha who sealed himself within a golden coffin for three days and three nights while giving his teachings. It was composed to close off all six senses, and it is said that if one begins hearing it recited from childhood, one may grow into a person without feeling or desire — intended for the cultivation of those who practice the Buddhist path. However, this method of reshaping through prolonged conditioning is far too cruel and runs counter to the true spirit of the Buddhist teachings, which is why very few monks have passed it on in later generations.”

She listened with full attention, then was reminded of something.

“So that day in the small tent in Lingxi — Your Majesty was actually reciting a sutra?”

He hooked his finger — her hair drifted between his fingers — and his tone was one of undisguised teasing.

“An occasional lapse, requiring a bit of corrective effort, that’s all.”

“Ah—” Recalling what had passed that day, she lowered her head in awkward embarrassment. “I see.”

The air held one moment of suspension, and then after a little while, she spoke somewhat tentatively.

“These things — has Your Majesty ever spoken of them to anyone else?”

“I have never brought them up, but there are two or three who know.”

Then why — why have you told me?

She could not ask that. She had no confidence in the answer.

She swallowed a silent sigh and turned the question into something else.

“Does Master Zong know about these things? He seems rather wary of Your Majesty.”

“Zong Hao is a man who does not believe in destiny, yet believes in cause and consequence — and willingly pays the price for every turn of that wheel. In his childhood, he was abandoned in the wilderness. A male deer raised him. Ever since, wherever he goes, he keeps deer as repayment. Later, he brought about a great wrong among my mother’s people, and so to this day, he always yields three steps in my presence.”

A fitting reckoning.

Yet if this world truly operated on cause and consequence, why had the one responsible for the massacre of the entire Xiao family not yet emerged to face judgment?

She felt a deep indignation — and, beneath it, an even deeper dread.

The tangle of mysteries she had failed to unravel that day in the rear courtyard of the Xuanyuan Prince’s Mansion now floated back to the surface, tormenting her relentlessly.

The words coiled around her tongue, and only after great effort did she manage to force them out.

“Does Your Majesty know much about Master Zong?”

“What do you imagine I know?”

She had thought she had concealed her probing quite well — but before him, she was almost entirely transparent.

She lowered her head.

“What is in Your Majesty’s heart — how would I know.”

This time, silence truly descended.

He said nothing more. She stubbornly held her silence as well.

She rolled over, facing away from him, fixing her gaze on a stretch of exquisitely embroidered silver thread, watching it until the first light of morning illuminated it.

Knock knock knock.

Three knocks at the door.

Xiao Nanhui shifted her eyes. Her whole body tensed involuntarily.

After a moment, Dan Jiangfei’s voice sounded outside the door.

“Your Majesty, the hour has come.”

Xiao Nanhui still did not move, not daring to breathe.

She heard the sound of fabric shifting as he left the bed behind her, and then his voice.

“Understood.”

She kept her ears sharp, not releasing her breath until the sound of Dan Jiangfei’s footsteps outside the door had receded.

“Is my bed truly so comfortable?”

She practically launched herself off the bed in a carp leap, but before she had even taken a step, a hand came from behind and caught hold of her.

“Your robe — you don’t want it?”

She froze, then spun around rapidly, bowing her head again and again.

“I do, I do, I do—”

Eyes darting in all directions, Xiao Nanhui could not find the outer robe she had removed the night before.

Hmm? Where were her clothes?

Before she had any inkling of the answer, his figure had already drawn up behind her.

He gently lifted one arm for her, his fingertips sliding past, and half a sleeve of small-diamond-patterned brocade-bordered fabric had already slid up over her arm. Another distracted moment, and he had already circled in front of her, fastening the clasps at her collar, and was now occupied with the sash at her waist.

He did all of this with natural, unhurried ease — not the faintest hint of unfamiliarity or hesitation.

Are all Emperors of Tiancheng skilled at helping others dress?

Xiao Nanhui stared at the dead knot at her waist and, trembling slightly, voiced the conclusion that had been sitting in her heart all along.

“This isn’t my robe.”

“Correct.” He gave a light nod, matter-of-fact. “It’s mine.”

Having said that, he stepped back a few paces to appraise her, and concluded:

“Not much difference. It fits well enough.”

Fits? Where does it fit?!

Xiao Nanhui pinched the coiled dragon clasp fashioned from silk threads at the collar and turned it left and right, unable at first to comprehend how the clasp had been fastened — and equally unable to figure out how it might be undone.

“This is a new black ceremonial robe recently made by the Imperial Household Bureau. If you damage it, go to the Imperial Household supervisor and pay for it in silver.”

Her fingers, still in the middle of their effort, gave a twitch — and she went limp all over, bitterness spreading across her face.

“Your Majesty — your servant’s duties include riding on horseback and traveling across rough terrain. If this is accidentally soiled or torn—”

“Then be more careful.”

He spoke these words with eyes calm as still water — at once a warning and an admonishment. Then his gaze shifted, and from the darkness where the morning light had not yet reached, he retrieved something.

“Oh — and there is something I need to give you.”

When she made out what he was holding in his hand, Xiao Nanhui went blank for a moment, and the confusion of the night dissolved in an instant.

Heavy, about the size of a palm. A gold filigreed case. Within it, a jade-green something swaying and turning with the shifting of its weight.

It was the Exquisite Shrine.

Even if she had all the memory in the world to lose, she would never forget what was held inside it.

“Why — why does Your Majesty want to give this to me?”

He feigned puzzlement, even finding the leisure to jest.

“Didn’t you want it all along? I heard that after I outmaneuvered you, you crouched outside the gates of the Chancellor’s Mansion for an entire night.”

Xiao Nanhui could not bring herself to smile.

“Is Your Majesty toying with me?”

He composed his expression. His voice, however, remained very soft.

“Back in Bijiang, I saw how brave you were. How is it that you’ve gone timid now?”

This isn’t a matter of timid or brave.

In the matter of Bijiang, even if things had gone wrong, the worst outcome would have been her death alone — just one more wandering ghost in Lingxi. But if anything happened to the Imperial Seal — even dying a thousand deaths would not repay that debt.

She truly could not make sense of it, and dared not accept it just like that.

“Surely at Your Majesty’s side there is the Black Feather Camp, and Commander Ding as well — is that not the safest place in all the world?”

“You’re not wrong, but there are circumstances under which I cannot keep it at my side.” His tone was measured, each word spoken clearly. “Even so, it is as precious to me as my own life, and must be entrusted to someone I trust completely and without reservation. Xiao Nanhui — will you be that person?”

The Exquisite Shrine reflected a layer of golden light in the morning glow, eclipsing even the still-burning lamps nearby.

She thought again of the beautiful night just passed. The tender warmth that had lingered long in her memory suddenly cooled by several degrees.

Had it all been — kindness in exchange for this task?

He had not brought up his reasons on his own. And so she would not ask.

“Your servant is willing.”

With that, she reached out to take the Exquisite Shrine.

But the man’s hand withdrew a fraction. His gaze was appraising as it settled on her eyes.

“Carrying it will likely bring dangers that are difficult to predict. Are you certain?”

Xiao Nanhui’s hand paused for only a single beat, then stepped forward and seized the object, stuffing it haphazardly into the pouch at her waist.

“This is not the first time Your Majesty has assigned me such a troublesome task. Bijiang was formidably dangerous — and I came back alive all the same, didn’t I?” She wore an air of indifference, and lowered her head, rubbing her nose. “For any such future matter, Your Majesty need only entrust it to me directly. There is no need to go the long way round — sacrificing an entire night in the process. In truth, even if—”

Even if you did nothing at all. Even if you were not the Emperor. As long as you asked — I would be willing.

She could not say it aloud.

He was the master of this world’s chessboard — the hands that raised and set down each piece.

She had thought that a chess piece such as herself would be beneath his notice.

“There are still matters in camp. Your servant asks leave to withdraw.”

Her hair was still half loose. She stepped into last night’s shoes, not stopping to mind that the soles were still somewhat damp and cold, and with a shuffling, hasty step, she made for the door — hurrying without daring to look back.